In 2015 Obergefell v. Hodges happened, and my long-term partner and I decided we needed to get married before SCOTUS changed their mind or Congress decided to do something worse than what was already happening to same-sex couples' rights in the United States.
We lived in Texas, so we had to go to Iowa to get married. That was the closest state to us that allowed same-sex marriage.
On the third weekend of November, we drove 13 hours to get married by a Justice of the Peace in a town named after a piece of furniture. We spend out honeymoon celebrating Thanksgiving with an Orthodox Jewish family who was also celebrating Hannukah at the same time.
By then, my wife and I had been together for 9 years. Five years into our relationship, we had agreed our relationship was for life. We were already committed to each other when SCOTUS made the ruling. We married legally in 2015 to solidify our rights for property, for health decision, and for all those other things that heterosexual couples immediately get by getting married on a whim in Las Vegas.
Before 2015, if we wanted those rights, it would have taken thousands of dollars, a lot of legal paperwork, and possibly one of us legally adopting the other. That sort of arrangement was not unheard of as a way for same-sex couple to have the rights a married heterosexual couple is simply bestowed.
My wife and I didn't get married to be part of history. We did it to try to protect ourselves while the opportunity was there, but the fact remains we are a part of our country's history, and I forget that.
This past week, I was working with an intern at my office. He is 22, and he was excitedly telling me and some others about the 2-year anniversary trip he and his boyfriend are going on during spring break. It's to France. He's elated.
He didn't pause to see if it was safe to talk about having a boyfriend. He didn't think twice about sharing their relationship details. He didn't flinch when someone asked if they'd heard him correctly when he said he had a boyfriend of 2 years. He smiled and repeated himself, assuming the person just hadn't caught what he said as opposed to assuming the person had caught it and wasn't pleased about it.
He wasn't scared to be himself. He didn't feel threatened about sharing a normal part of his life. He was just himself, and it was a beautiful moment for me to watch.
When he asked if I had a partner, I shared about my wife, and he was so happy to hear about an old lesbian couple, but, then, we started talking about what that really meant. I told him about our struggle to get married. I explained what it was like for us at his age, and he was honestly surprised to learn about our struggles.
Then he said in a voice of awe and wonder, "I can't imagine living in a world where there's no same-sex marriage or that it wouldn't be okay to be me. That's such a crazy thought. It must've been really hard."
Then I told him that, at his age, I didn't have a lot of old gays like me to talk to, which I thought made it harder. He had to think for a moment before it struck him why. He said, "Oh, the AIDS epidemic? That's true. A lot of people died."
I said, "A lot of our people died because the politics of the day said that, if you contracted AIDS, it was because you deserved it for being morally reprehensible, which is insane, of course. A lot of us died at the hands of people who hated us for being ourselves, and even more died in the closet because the alternative was worse that remaining hidden. There was so much violence. I'm very glad that I can be here today with you to be your old gay person to talk to about your history. I think it's a gift to the community that you and I can have this talk because my generation isn't as lucky."
That thought hit him hard, and he sat with it for a long time in silence, and then he said, "Fucking Reagan."
